


Two in the Hand

by lazy_cinder



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dom/sub Undertones, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Mild Kink, No Plot/Plotless, Polyamory, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threesome - M/M/M, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-03-31 04:03:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13966941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazy_cinder/pseuds/lazy_cinder
Summary: In a wildly unlikely scenario, Jesus gets captured and changes the outcome of the war in many wonderful ways.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The "threats of rape/non-con" tag is in warning to an incident that is not perpetrated by any of the main characters. The relationships listed in the tags are intended to be consensual and enjoyed by all parties. Please do not read if you feel you might be distressed by any of the tagged scenarios.

No one had expected Daryl to let Dwight walk, but he did. Daryl, Rick, Michonne and Jesus stood on the starlit pavement and watched as Dwight walked his bike right out Alexandria’s gates, in Daryl’s vest, with Daryl’s bow on his back. All the while, Daryl swore up and down he’d be the one to end his life, whether or not their turncoat recruit came through on his side. 

A part of Jesus remained unconvinced. The subtle macho posturing had kept Jesus guessing for a minute, but he felt no need to make light of it. It would even be somewhat endearing, in another dimension where they had the time for games. 

Following that tense encounter, Tara, Rosita, Jesus, Daryl and Michonne filed into the Grimes residence, followed by Rick, who closed the door quietly, in case Carl and Judith slept. The women sat first around the dining table, joined by an exhausted Rick. Daryl stood near the window, too agitated to keep still. Jesus made himself right at home, filling a pitcher with water, setting it on the table with some cups and filling one for himself before propping himself against the counter. He looked pale and far off in thought.

All eyes settled on Rosita, whose composure was thin, her face drawn and distant. The unspoken reality of Sasha’s situation settled heavy over the group within minutes. To Jesus, it was a very loud silence. 

Rick rubbed his head slowly, lost on another plane of stress. Michonne turned her morbidly resigned attention from him to Daryl, pulling at his fingers as he bore a hole in the floor with his eyes, still twitchy and adrift on a receding tide of adrenaline. 

“So no Oceanside, and no Kingdom.”

It did a little to right the hunter, who glanced up and shook his head, one hand kneading the opposite forearm uneasily. His erratic pacing slowed, and his back found the wall once he willed himself to relax.

“Carol might still talk ‘im into it,” he offered. “Few of ‘em wanted to join us.”

His eyes darted away from Jesus’ piercing stare, deflecting it back to the group with a flick of his head that tossed a thin curtain of damp, tangled hair between them. 

The anxious exhaustion in the room was palpable. The high-stakes ordeal at Oceanside had wrapped up, and all of them were aching for an hour or two of rest. They arrived back at Alexandria to find that Rosita had returned, with Dwight as her prisoner. 

Sasha hadn’t. Down one marksman, they had still dared to release Negan’s. There was no need to bring up their narrowing odds. He set the emptied cup face-down in the sink before looking to Rosita.

“Which door?” His inquiry, while spoken gently, shifted the energy in the room.

It got the biggest rise out of Tara, who straightened and looked between them. Rick leaned back in his chair, and Jesus could read his exasperation in Michonne’s eyes. Daryl shifted his stance, but Tara was quicker to shut him down.

“No. Jesus, we need you tomorrow. We can’t risk-,” Tara stated. 

“South-west side entrance, to the right of the loading area. Closest to the fence.” Rosita interrupted, matching the glare that came her way, jaw set. 

“Can’t be you,” Daryl spoke before Rick could finish turning his chair with a loud scrape. “Maggie needs ya’ at Hilltop.” 

Jesus shook his head. “She needs Sasha, too. I should have done more to stop her, but she didn’t have any reason to believe Alexandria was still planning to attack. She needs Harlan, too. What we _don’t_ need is Negan holding them hostage.”

“Sasha made her choice,” Rosita stated coldly, and Tara gaped at her in disbelief before she turned her focus back to Jesus.

“We need to stick to the plans. We need you for that.”

“What if I can get Sasha back? Get Harlan out of there?"

Daryl narrowed his eyes, uncomfortable. “Don’t push your luck. See what you can n’ get out. Sherry ain’t there to help this time.” 

"Really, Jesus? And what if you become another hostage? Or worse?" Tara argued, glancing around for support before she sank back in her chair, astounded by the idiocy transpiring before her. Michonne sighed, sliding her hand into Rick’s and giving it a squeeze. 

Jesus gritted his teeth. "I won’t push it. I’ll follow Dwight, keep an eye on things. It’s probably crazy in there, maybe I can slip through in the commotion. If I don’t get an opening, I’ll be back at Hilltop tomorrow, in time for everything else."

Daryl shook his head, getting no help from Rick. “Still ain’t worth the risk," he stated.

"Dwight said they would capture her if they could, that Negan would decide if she’s killed. Sasha could still be alive in there. What if-"

“It should be me,” Rosita interrupted the two. 

“Don’t you think you’ve done enough?” Tara lowered her voice when Michonne laid a hand on her arm, sighing and rubbing her face. “I’m sorry, I just mean, you need rest. We all do. And I could have said something sooner, about Oceanside. We’ve all messed up, but if we keep rolling the dice, this whole thing could fall apart. We need to stay on the same page.”

Jesus did his best to channel a calm, convincing tone, despite the clammy chill of uncertainty that crept over his skin. "I understand. I really do. And we will. I won't move in if it's too risky. I just need to see for myself, okay? Worst case, we move forward as planned."

 

Daryl was mildly aware of his heart thrashing around in his chest as he counted down the minutes until they had to say goodbye, hating that it might be for the last time. Jesus definitely didn't need his help, but he was glad he let him stick around anyways, oiling gears and adjusting the height of the handlebars and inspecting the alignment with more care and attention than he’d ever paid to a bicycle in his life. Still, he stood by in silence while the scout made some quick adjustments to the seat of the mountain bike in Rick's garage. 

Jesus couldn’t say he didn’t appreciate the warmth of a human presence while the rest had turned in to soak up one last night of sleep. Daryl had always been the sweet one in the group.

He twisted his hair into a bun at the nape of his neck, pulled the black bandana up over his nose and mouth and tucked his beanie over his ears. With his black gloves on, and a navy blue turtleneck Eric had loaned him beneath his long leather coat, only a sliver of pale skin around his eyes remained visible. He checked his gun and knives, mounted the bicycle and let it cruise into the street, looping around to find the quietest gear and test the brakes before balancing a toe against the curb to wait for his taciturn escort to close the garage and join him on the road.

He glided in a lazy loop around Daryl before slowing down next to him, toes paddling the street below him to match the hunter's pensive stride as they headed towards the gate. 

He wanted to talk to him, leave him with some kind encouragement at the very least; he had so much to say, but couldn’t really pin down the words. Their language was more touch and gesture than spoken, but this night felt different, moved by an unseen force in a direction he didn’t necessarily want to go. He was usually the talkative one, but this time his mind was trained elsewhere. The warm lure of the man beside him might draw him back to the false safety of a hearth under siege, and he couldn’t let himself consider that an option. Not if Sasha was trapped out there, facing the last moments of her life, alone in her fear and regret.

It was Daryl who broke the silence instead, chancing a glance at the lithe silhouette as they reached the gate. He was almost unrecognizable, wrapped in tight dark clothes, the tension visible in his shoulders and the trepid hang of his head. Sometimes Daryl was caught off-guard by the striking beauty of his form, and this was one of those moments. He pulled the gate’s latch back and cleared his throat, still grasping the cold metal bar. 

"Meant what I said. This isn't on you." 

Jesus huffed into a slightly more relaxed posture, the lines around his eyes flashing in a grateful smile. "I know. I couldn't have stopped her if I wanted to. Same reason you won’t stop me."

That seemed to smooth the hunter’s bristles, knocking him back a pace. His gaze darted away, floating outside their periphery as he processed for a moment before meeting his fond eyes with uncertainty. "N' why's that?"

"She wanted a better life for the rest of us. She chose her path out of love, and believed in it. And I believed if anyone could pull it off, it would be her." 

Daryl breathed a thin sigh and shook his head, knocking his arm with the back of his hand. “Believed you when you said you just wanted a look. Don’t try an’ be some goddamn hero.” 

Jesus studied him, quiet when he spoke. “I’ll look, and if I see an opportunity, I’ll be careful. Trust me, I won’t risk giving up the Hilltop.” He let his eyes flicker in a brief smile, watching his words stir and settle over Daryl’s features before patting himself down to make sure everything was in place. He checked his watch again; ten past ten. He wished that he was heading back to the Hilltop instead, or that Daryl would say something to make him stay.

Instead, Daryl heaved the heavy gate open with a growl, a feat that normally took two, and waited for Jesus to pass while he rubbed the impressions of the wire out of his fingers, avoiding his eyes. "Just don't do anythin' stupid," he mumbled to his feet.

Jesus paused for one last look at him, wishing they had just a little more time. "I'll do whatever might give us the best chance, which probably won't be much. Maybe I can spot a gap in their defences.” He reached out to brush Daryl’s arm with a gloved hand, drawing tired eyes to his.

“Get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow."

The sad, wary expression on Daryl’s face was like a punch in the gut. All he received was a small nod in parting. Swallowing back a twinge of guilt, he pushed out onto the dark road and disappeared into the humid, moonless night. 

 

It was a long ride, even as he pushed himself to the highest speed he could sustain, breath heavy and steady as though he could outrace the doubt and dread he felt. Haunting visions of Sasha chained to the fence, dead and hungry, tormented him. 

When the patrol headlights were still small glimmers up the road, he had plenty of time to duck into the brush until they passed. It was obvious the Saviors were on high alert. His own mind was still racing with the past week, events piling up in disordered patterns, the clarity of his purpose dwindling the more he dwelled on what they were up against and just how sloppy their game had been from the start. 

It felt like he’d arrived all too quickly when he found the angel’s ghostly statue looming over him, startling him out of his trance.

He backtracked and walked his bike through the most abandoned yard to stow it behind a pile of broken pallets, moving some of them to cover it before scaling the low wall of an abandoned garage to lose sight of the gurgling walkers his rummaging had drawn. He took his time scanning the darkness for lookouts, needing several minutes to catch his breath before prowling the perimeter in shadow, leaving any walkers he encountered as intact as he could to avoid leaving any evidence of his presence. 

It took him almost two hours to come full circle. From what he could tell, the Sanctuary was a hive of activity from every angle, shadows shifting behind every dull window. 

He re-traced his path to the back exit where he had met Daryl during his escape. Obscured by fences and rusted scrap vehicles, he was able to observe the few workers checking over the vehicles in the yard. It seemed as though they were preparing to move out in the morning. He wouldn’t have expected less from their ferocious leader.

The cool night breeze almost masked the scent of the groaning cadavers tethered to the fence. He wedged himself into a more comfortable position atop a dusty truck and drained half his water, hoping it would help to wake him up a little. He checked his watch; it read 1:37 AM. He had time to rest his eyes for an hour or two, but did his best to keep his eyes open. If the lights went out, he could sneak in, try to find Sasha. If not, he'd return to Hilltop to join Maggie as their forces headed to Alexandria. 

 

A sickening dread roared to life inside him when a tractor trailer's engine startled him awake, a rush of adrenaline bolting through his body when the dim morning light flooded his vision. The rusted piece of corrugated steel that blanked him scraped sharply against the metal beneath him when he moved, and he held his breath, scanning the scene before him, bleary-eyed and panic-stricken, to be sure the noise hadn't drawn anyone's attention. 

There was a lot of commotion, a steady stream of armed Saviors filed out of the compound, filling the idling vehicles to await their signal. The large flatbed truck rumbled toward the loading area beside the building, and just as he slipped to a new vantage point Sasha emerged, escorted by Eugene and Negan. 

He couldn't read their lips through his scope, but they walked her onto the flatbed and helped her into a coffin as he watched helplessly from his nest. Afterwards, Negan and Eugene joined Simon in the army truck, and led the caravan of trucks out the gates within a matter of minutes. There had been no sign of Harlan. He had no idea what to do, but at this point he had no way of getting ahead of the procession to warn Alexandria of their approach. He was left looking over a dusty lot as the procession rumbled into the distance, and took a deep breath, fixing his focus on his only chance to get inside and get Harlan out. 

There was one blind spot behind a group of barrels, guarded by two fresh and lively additions to the walker-fence. Before the sound of motors faded he had already dispatched them and clipped a reasonable hole through the chain link. Before entering, he stowed his beanie in the pocket of his long coat, rolled it into a tight bundle and stashed it in a nearby shrub so he could move freely and silently. 

The guard on duty had already relaxed his watch to light a cigarette as soon as the last car vanished from sight. Jesus crept through the door that was propped open behind him, slipping into the cell block unnoticed. He made his way through the small maze of hallways, looking for signs indicating a medical station, all eerily silent save for the low din of a record player from within the staff and storage rooms. The “staff parking” signs had a white cross painted over the words, so he followed one to the next and peered around the corner.

The hallway was short, two rooms on either side. Two women waited in the hallway in chairs, leaving Jesus trapped in the adjacent hallway with no cover. He peered around the corner, desperate for the women to turn away, when Harlan escorted one more out the door, heavily pregnant, and called another inside. The woman left behind rushed forward to hug the pregnant one, who hugged her back and proudly showed her a print-out of her sonogram. Just as he saw the chance to duck into a nearby well, the click of a gun behind him made him freeze. 

"Playin' hookey again, Jared?"

Jesus raised his hands slowly, straightening up and hoping to pass for a Savior long enough to gauge where the gun was being held.

"Thought you could nick some more dope while the boss is out, huh? Nah, you wouldn't do that, not while you still owe me for the last drop. Cough it up, prick."

Jesus chewed his lip, exhaling through tensely flared nostrils before turning to face the man with palms innocently raised. "I-I don't know who you think I am, sir, but I was told the doctor was this way?"

The grizzled man with grey teeth narrowed his eyes in puzzlement, taken aback before nodding vaguely, then shaking his head. "Don't think I've-"

Jesus disarmed him and knocked him to the ground in seconds, but his alarmed shouting drew two more men out of their room and rushing towards them. Jesus found the revolver's chamber empty when he tried to fire off a warning shot, and cursed. The lanky man with greying red hair approached faster, and he whipped the pistol at his head. The stout man who limped behind him lunged, with a knife, and Jesus threw him to the ground before being tripped up in the arms of the first. Before he could kick free, he found a heavily pregnant brunette standing over him with a gun trained on his face. 

"Nice try, prick, but not without a hall pass—and yes, this one's loaded."

Arms raised and reeling with his own shocking failure, racing mind taking in every detail he could, he was hauled to his feet and steered through heavy doors into a dark secured hallway, to what looked like a small storage closet. There were a couple more barren doors between his and a stair well, and a windowed enclosure between his and the doors by which they entered.

The woman with the gun to his head was careful not to come close enough for him to make a grab for it, pale grey eyes sharp and spiteful as she motioned for the others to give them space, then motioning one of them with a quick jerk of her head. 

"Strip him, Otis."

He flared his nostrils but otherwise endured the rough handling as the shorter, balding man removed his weapons and clothing. The red-haired man with the bloodied lip flashed a light inside the dark enclosure, then nodded to the others. Barren cinder blocks for walls and floors of pitted, stained concrete greeted him with a waft of odour somewhere between mouldy laundry and vomit. Jesus felt his heart drop into his bowels at the sight of the dank, tight space, his chilled skin crawling with goosebumps. 

"Bill, bind his hands." 

Jesus patiently offered his shaking hands to the red-haired man so that ropes could be wound snugly around them to secure his wrists. After a few tugs to test the knots, he balked as he was shoved unceremoniously over the threshold.

"Are you really going to leave me like this?" He raised his bound wrists, glancing longingly at his clothing bundled on the floor.

"Don't need you breaking any more teeth," Bill spat. 

"You're lucky we're leaving you alive," the woman added coldly, before shutting him away in darkness.

 

Jesus felt oddly calm once he had cried out his frustration, knowing that at least Harlan was still safe, hoping that Sasha might be spared. The compound was eerily quiet for hours. He had started to doze off again when the rumble of activity returning to the building registered. He heard footsteps and voices coming up the hallway, and flattened himself against the wall, his grip on the ropes tightening as he held his breath. Keys jangled loudly against the door as one slid into the latch and then bright light poured in, a shadow moving into the doorway followed by the scoff of a stranger’s voice.

“Alright, kid, ‘nough fuckin’ around, you wanna eat or not.”

As soon as the balding head ducked inside, Jesus lunged to send him off balance, throwing the rope around his neck and twisting it in a desperate grip, ignoring the scrabbling feet tripping over the spilled tray and the sweaty fingers clawing for his face, catching some of his hair. “Easy there big guy, I’m going to need you to be quiet,” he growled into his ear, satisfied by the inaudible gurgle he earned.

“I don’t think so. Drop him.” Dwight held his crossbow high from the doorway, sharp eyes boring holes in his. 

Jesus dropped the ropes, and the man dropped to the floor, coughing as he crawled away. He slowly raised his palms, bracing for a bolt through the heart or maybe the face. 

“Step out.” Dwight stepped back to put more space between them.

Just as the man he attacked got to his feet, the door up the hallway burst open and he immediately dropped into a submissive kneel. Dwight backed away, bow still trained on Jesus.

“It’s okay, D. No need to antagonize our guest. Let’s have a look at him.”

Negan strode toward the doorway of the cell, a gore-splattered Lucille over his shoulder. Jesus immediately thought of Sasha and felt himself sway a little on his feet. Negan looked sombre and a little bit sweaty, but he stood confidently over him, looking him down and up. 

“Well fuck me sideways, you really do look like the one and only Saviour himself! Well, more like the tacky prints in grandma’s bedroom version, but still.” Negan whistled in amusement, turning to his men. “He’d make a good mascot, am I right?”

Jesus remained tight-lipped and stone-faced, mistrustful of the smug swagger, and the black eyes lit up in predatory amusement. 

“Yeah, I’ve heard about you, _Jesus._ ” Negan shook his head slowly, letting all humour melt out of his murderous stare. “In fact, I just got back from visiting some of your new friends in Alexandria. Turned into quite the event. It’s a shame you couldn’t have been there. Smoke bombs, a tiger, a whole lot of biters, even had that dead widow turn up with half of Hilltop! You couldn’t have known anything about that, though. You were busy raiding my dispensary, am I right?” 

Negan coldly studied the concerned clarity forming in captivated eyes, the slighter man shrinking at the mention of his friends. He shook his head subtly. “No, I guess you didn’t get the invite.”

Jesus swallowed back the nausea rising in his chest, his heart racing, painful throbbing where wrists still burned from the ropes. If Negan had returned already, that meant that maybe they had forced him into retreat. Negan and his men seemed demoralized, though he hid it well. 

“Where’s Sasha?”

Negan’s dark stare faltered, backing slightly out of his personal space to address the loss. “She didn’t make it.” 

Jesus opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again after a moment when no sound came out. No tears came. He felt an overwhelming amount of nothing. 

Negan’s gaze dropped to the rope on the ground before he picked it up, turning to address his men. 

“Who did this.”

The stout man, Otis, pointed at Bill. “Was him, sir.”

Negan’s lips formed a tight line, eyebrows raised when he spun to face the other man. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I seem to remember having this talk, yesterday. Do you?”

“Y-yes, sir.” 

“Remind me. What was it we discussed.”

“N-no ropes in the cells, sir—but we had to.” 

“And why was that.”

“He broke Lando’s arm, busted one of my teeth, he-”

“He nearly hanged _Otis_ here in his own cell and escaped. He could have snapped his neck.”

“Wouldn’t need a rope for that,” Jesus’ cold interruption earned a baffled stare from Negan, and the shuffling of weapons being raised, so he added, “I was only trying to knock him out.”

Negan motioned them to lower their weapons, returning to address Jesus, nose to nose, his bold stillness unsettling. 

“You are _my_ prisoner now. Mine. Because _your_ people can’t stay in line, I’m keeping _you_ as collateral. Your stay here doesn’t have to be uncomfortable. Good behaviour will be _rewarded_. So, to start, _you_ will speak when spoken to, and _only_ when spoken to. We have lost men today, because _your_ friends can’t follow some fucking simple fucking rules, and instead of requesting a parley, you break in through _my_ back door and try to deprive _my_ people of _my_ doctor-” 

“He’s Hilltop’s. He is Maggie’s doctor! You wouldn’t need him if you weren’t wasting your own men left and ri-” 

The loud bang of Negan slamming Lucille against the doorframe silenced him. The shakiness he’d heard in his own voice distressed him further, digging his nails into his palms. Negan was within easy reach, he could break his nose and snap his neck before any of his men could get a shot off. 

Negan studied the man before him, who reeled on the brink of striking, nostrils flared and skin flushed in feral contrast to icy green eyes. He exhaled, a smirk cutting across his face, baring white teeth. “Breathe, boy. I’d hate to have to paint the walls with your pretty little skull. It’s been a long-ass shit-storm of a day for all of us.” He resumed a more comfortable height, lowering the barb-wrapped bat. He waited for Jesus to produce a shuddering exhale before continuing.

“If _Maggie_ needs to see _my_ doctor, she can crawl out of her fucking grave to come here and ask. Jesus, was that woman a sight.” Negan grinned wickedly, shaking his head. “Have to admit, I was impressed your people even had the balls, not that it wasn’t an extremely fucking stupid idea.”

All colour drained from Jesus’ face, his quiet voice breaking when he asked, “is she alive?”

Negan poked his tongue out to taste his upper lip, glowering momentarily before he stepped back with a wide shrug. “Beats me. After that tiger ripped my man’s face off, my memory gets a little sketchy.” 

Jesus nodded, and hung his head, hugging his chest as a deep shudder ran through his chilled body. He had forgotten he was almost naked, but Negan hadn’t. 

“Dwight. Bring this man something to wear. And you, you shady little prick, you can spend the night in here thinking about how _you_ attacked one of _my_ men after I sent him to serve you a nice hot meal. And you’d damned well better eat every last scrap of it off that filthy fucking floor, because we do _not_ waste food around here.” He took a grey bundle of clothing from Dwight and tossed it into Jesus’ arms, shut the door between them and locked it. 

 

Jesus was left in near-total darkness, Negan already murmuring orders to his men as their footsteps faded up the hallway, eventually passing through a doorway and leaving him in silence. He already felt the claustrophobia breathing down his neck when the faraway door slammed shut, leaving him with the roar of blood in his ears, the rank air a little too warm and moist, like it had already been all breathed up. Just as he began fumbling to unfold and sort his limbs into the clothing, there was a loud click and the lone crack of light under the door went out. His throat grew sore and impossibly tight and he felt his eyes swelling up with hot tears. 

The clothing was too big around the waist and too short at the sleeves, but it was a comforting warm shield against the cell’s dubiously sticky floor. He felt carefully for a clear spot to sit, away from the spilled food, and crouched with his back to the corner, hugging his knees to his chest and allowing himself to fall apart for a while. 

When the terrified sobs wracking his body finally gave way to humiliated exhaustion, he stretched out on the floor, adjusting the bun at the back of his head and almost achieving a comfortable barrier between his head and the floor. The floor was cold, and he thought he felt an insect brush against his ankle, making his skin crawl and prickle with more imagined insects. Tears still welled up, rolled into his ears and soaked into his hair while he tried to keep his breathing steady. 

He thought about Maggie having to lead Hilltop without him, and having to see Sasha die. He thought about Daryl seeing him off the same way he had let Sasha go. He wondered if he was alive, if any of them had survived. 

It was a long and hard-fought battle between gut-wrenching sorrow and the exhaustion settling in after running on pure adrenaline for days on end. He eventually reached a state of calm resolution, sure that he would find a way to escape, and it felt as though he’d barely sighed and relaxed his eyes when he was startled awake by his door bursting open and bright light pouring in. Two strong men hoisted him to his feet and dragged him into the hallway, pushing him to his knees in front of Negan. 

The scent of leather, freshly-showered skin and cologne hit him like a breath of spring, in the most confusing way possible. The imposing man towered over him with a smug swagger, freshly dressed and looking well-rested. His own mouth felt horribly dry and tasted like garbage. 

Negan looked him over, a bright smile plastered across his face as he shook a spray-paint can with a yellow cap at his side. “Rise and shine, boy. Your audience awaits.” 

 

The fumes from the paint on his shirt were overpowering, and he was glad he hadn’t been shut back in his cell with them. The dumpy, stained sweat shirt now sported a large yellow “P” and the mismatched bottoms that barely skimmed his ankles threatened to slide off his hips with the first misstep. He glanced up at Negan, who led him up the hallway with a hand at the back of his neck.

“Why the ‘P’? I’m from Hilltop.”

Jesus felt a boot land squarely on his left buttock as soon as the words left his mouth, making him stumble and Negan’s grip tighten painfully, demanding he maintain his upright pace. 

“Shut your mouth, _prick_ ,” Dwight hissed. Negan stared ahead smugly, marching his men onward. He counted fourteen paces to the end of the prisoners’ wing. A key was needed to open the door, then ten more steps, six stairs down, hundreds of silent eyes on him and then three volleys of gunfire echoed from somewhere outside the building. 

He pinned a hard stare on Negan’s face the whole time, who never once flinched or glanced his way. His hands were kept behind him by proper steel handcuffs this time. Negan carried Lucille over his right shoulder, his right hand gloved, the left steering him along with neatly trimmed nails digging into his skin. The thought finally crossed his mind that he was being led to his slaughter. He studied Lucille, her polished wood impossibly spotless and barbed wire gleaming.

“So I’m next? Is she really that thirsty?” 

Dwight inhaled sharply behind him, but he wasn’t struck this time, because Negan raised a hand to stay him. 

“Yes,” came Negan’s grim response.

The opening he waited for still hadn’t come. After twenty-seven uneasy paces it felt as though he floated up the next three flights of stairs. There was an empty control room on the top landing, with a pair of doors to the right, and Jesus felt tears pricking his eyes in a mix of grief and rage. The detached face to his right still refused to look him in the eye.

“I could have killed every one of them while you weren’t here, you know,” he stated, hating the waver in his voice, his panic erupting in an embarrassing whimper when Negan slammed him hard against the steel door. The strong hand pinned him there with a crushing grip while he peered through a slit at the top of one of the narrow windows, and sucked some air between his teeth. 

“Maybe you should have,” Negan growled, surveying the yard and the ramshackle phalanx of vehicles arranged before it. Negan must have felt some pity for him, because the grip on his neck relaxed and let him stand freely. A radio hissed to life behind them, muttering something about numbers and an encroaching horde, Eugene replying, but his own ragged voice drowned them out.

“Why do you want this? Do you really want to pick my hair out of her teeth when it’s done? Do you think you’ll live that long? Do you really think it’s going to end any differently this time?”

Negan stepped away from the crack of light, giving him a pitying stare from dark and strangely soft eyes. 

“That all depends on them, doesn’t it.”

He pulled latch barring the top of the door before pushing it wide open and showering Jesus in harsh sunlight, broadly gesturing toward the small army.

 

Maggie cursed harshly under her breath, a murmur rippling through the ranks behind the sheet metal barricades. Rick shot her a wary look, immediately dreading how the situation could turn as Jesus stumbled barefoot onto the metal grate of the platform. He was sporting a yellow “P” on a grey tracksuit, similar to the one Daryl wore, hair in a dishevelled bun and face so pale that Rick wondered if he had been bitten. The light made him flinch, even in the shadow of the building, and he blinked down at his feet, suppressing a shudder as the rest lined up behind him. 

Negan, Dwight, and Eugene filed out the door, Dwight’s crossbow trained on his head as Negan placed a hand on his shoulder and ushered him to his knees, surveying the small gathering of insurgents. Simon was the last to join them, holding a small wooden crate by its rope handles.

“Well, Rick. Apparently, I need to work on my pitch, because it seems you’ve already forgotten how this works.”

Rick swore under his breath. He had planned a really good speech about only one of them needing to die, but with Jesus as a hostage, he wasn’t sure if they could pull that off. 

Negan continued. “I knock, you provide us with the requisite goods, we leave, you go about your lives, unbothered by the dead roaming the earth, and everything works out just peachy.”

“That wasn’t what happened.” Rick spoke into a megaphone. 

“No, it certainly wasn’t, Rick. You see, I had better things to do, and then that big-balled bitch of yours decided to kamikaze her way into our supply wing and take out three of my men and two shelves of pickled goods before we so graciously captured your feisty little juggernaut! And just like I did with that neglected little one-eyed brat of yours, I brought her straight home!” 

Maggie tore the megaphone from Rick’s hands, furious.

“That wasn’t her!”

Negan raised his voice. “THAT was unplanned. Believe me, she was a keeper!” He emphasized it with a practise swing, narrowly skimming Jesus’ head, making him flinch and sending a horrified gasp through the crowd.

“Tell me, Rick, how was I greeted? With a poorly-plotted , not-so-secret ambush?” Negan licked his lips and pursed them, glancing at Simon with an under-handed flourish. He stared out at the concealed gathering with profound disappointment as Simon produced Gregory’s still-moving head from the box and flung it into the dirt to bounce and roll to a stop before the barricade.

“I get it, Rick. You’re a slow learner. You have issues with authority. I’m ready to be the better example. You know perfectly well what I’m capable of, but I need you to understand this: I sure as hell don’t like it when you push me there. We’ve suffered enough loss, your people and mine.”

Rick shook his head, eyes fixed on nothing in particular as he spoke through the shrill electric speaker. “Surrender, then. No one else needs to die.”

Negan shook his head with a wild grin. “Not a chance, Rick. We had an agreement. Stand down. Hand Daryl over. Work for us, _join us_ against the _greater threat_ , and I let your people walk. Acknowledge your mistakes and stand down, NOW, or this one dies, and we hunt the rest of you down like vermin.”

Eduardo grasped Maggie’s arm, squeezing it gently and speaking low. “We still haven’t heard from the Kingdom. We can’t let him hurt Jesus. He’s giving us an out.” 

She shrugged his touch away, lowering her gun and looking to Rick. 

“Rick,” Michonne whispered, squeezing his shoulder. “We don’t have to do this. We can fight another day.” 

Rick glanced at his watch, and shook his head with a far-off look of desolation. “It’s too late for that.” He raised the speaker to his lips. 

“Daryl’s not here.”

Negan’s brow creased as though he’d stepped in shit, his face darkening. As if on cue, a gunshot less than a quarter mile away was followed by an explosion that rocked the building, rattled windows and sent a plume of flame and smoke upwards from a nearby street. People on both lines were startled and crouched, a shower of dust from the high factory walls raining on Negan, Jesus and his men. Dwight and Simon had their weapons raised but seemed uncertain about where to aim them. Eugene stood there looking like he’d shit himself.

 **“Ten,”** Rick began over the loudspeaker.

“Rick!” Maggie yelled hoarsely.

“He won’t do it,” he said, before raising a fist and raising the speaker again while most of the Alexandrian and Hilltop fighters cocked their weapons and took aim.

**“Nine.”**

“Hell of a tragic waste, Rick,” Negan yelled, raising Lucille over his head and pausing when Jesus raised his head to the unmistakable ripping roar of a motorbike’s approach. 

**“Eight.”**

Negan squinted towards the smoke rising just past a nearby building. Jesus lunged forward, ducking against the railing as an arrow whipped past him, narrowly missing Negan and glancing off the brick behind him. 

“Mother-fucking dumb animals!” Negan hooked Lucille into the fabric of Jesus’ pants, tripping him before he could run any further.

**“Seven!”**

Deafening gunfire erupted around them, a cascade of broken glass raining down on their heads. Negan cursed and grabbed the back of Jesus’ shirt, hauling him back inside behind Dwight and the others while bullets whizzed past their heads. He stumbled and fell to the grated platform, still trying to shield his prisoner, who landed on top of him, unable to break his own fall with his arms bound. Dwight and Simon courageously bolted the steel doors shut. Panting and cursing, he rose swiftly to his feet, grabbing his radio and ordering his snipers to return fire before he pointed Simon to a very pallid Jesus. 

“Back in his cell. With water. Get the women to the basement.” Negan nodded at Simon, demanding confirmation.

“Yes sir,” Simon replied, hooking an arm around Jesus’ torso to try to get him standing. 

That was the last thing he heard over the ringing in his ears, thinking that some water would be very nice as his vision greyed and his knees went slack beneath him.


	2. Chapter 2

“Daryl.”

He didn’t register the sound at first, still reeling from the sight of Lucille raised high above Jesus and the hail of bullets whizzing past him. His fidgety, broody pacing paused so that he could fumble a new arrow into his crossbow with shaking hands, swearing and kicking up dust on the gravel shoulder when he noticed a cut on his thumb had been making things slippery. Rick placed a firm hand on him, waiting for eye contact, for Daryl to come back down and ground himself in reality. 

“Daryl. We need you back in the game. I need you to focus.”

Daryl stopped and pressed closer, chest-to-chest and scrutinizing him through a thick haze of rage. “Y’all out of your god-damn mind? You could’ve hit him!”

Rick shook his head. “No. No one did. We could’ve hit Negan if he hadn’t been in the way.” Daryl scrunched up his face and flung the hand off his arm, before shoving him with a grunt. Rick stood his ground, palms raised, his placating stare mostly ineffective. “I wouldn’t have let him take the swing, Daryl. Your timing was perfect.”

Daryl shook his head again, stepping back slightly, a trembling jaw worrying his lower lip before he gave a despondent shrug, the pitch in his voice tight with anxiety. “Now what? We wait for Jesus’ head to come back in a box?” He heaved a shaky breath but steadied himself slightly, still flushed with rage, and Rick had to dig deep to respond as coolly as possible.

“No, Daryl. Negan knows he’s got leverage. There’s nothing we can do to help Jesus right now; he can handle himself. Are you done yet? We still have bases to cover.” 

Rick waited quietly for a response, extending a clean kerchief in his hand, cleaner than the grease-stained black one he was using to blot the sticky blood from his palm, the one Paul had given him. He took it reluctantly, ignoring the cruel question for a while. 

“What’d he want?”

Rick tilted his head, squinting. “What?”

“Said Negan offered you a deal, what was it.”

Rick paused for a moment, then shook his head, avoiding his eyes. “Nothin’ we could give him.”

Daryl understood, and nodded, wavering slightly as he turned away, face still flushed with contempt as he hauled his bike up out of the dust.

 

Rosita was still pale, but strong enough to be sitting up, greeting Michonne with a head tilt of stony disinterest. Michonne had returned to the infirmary to fill her in on their expedition, as promised.

“Tell me he’s dead.”

Michonne’s face hardened before she dropped her head and sighed, sinking gracelessly into the worn reception chair beside her. “No, but they’re trapped. Everyone’s moving on their bases, as planned.”

“And who’s watching the place?”

“No one. We had to pull our snipers. We couldn’t spare them. Tara’s group needed Morgan more than the hundreds of walkers, but they won’t be getting out any time soon. They can’t shoot at the herd with the landings in the way.”

Rosita felt a chill drip down her spine as she took in the situation. “What about Jesus?”

“Negan tried to use him to make us surrender. By the time they brought him out, it was too late to radio Daryl and call it off.”

Rosita’s expression remained numb, her voice ragged. “Is he gone?”

Michonne shook her head. “Don’t know, but he was unharmed when they dragged him back inside. Daryl lost it. Wanted to ram their walls with the trailer to finish them, even with all the walkers there.”

Rosita stared down at her limp hands in her lap. “Maybe you should have. Why did you stop him?” 

Michonne regarded her with a slow tilt of the head. “Why didn’t you stop Sasha?”

Rosita glared. “I wanted to go with her, but she slipped through and locked me out.”

Michonne’s lips drew taut before she reached out to give Rosita’s arm a gentle squeeze. 

“We should go back.” Rosita hissed the minute she raised her arm, and Michonne laid a firm hand on her thigh to keep her down, unbothered by the glower she received. “We can’t let them weasel out of this! They have Eugene on their side now. He’ll figure something out, even if they don’t.”

“He won’t have time. Rick and Daryl will secure their heavy artillery, and then go to Jadis.” Michonne rubbed her head, reaching for the bottle of Advil on the bedside table. Rosita held her hand out when she popped the lid and shook out two pills, but she popped them into her own mouth, helping herself to Rosita’s water before handing them over. 

“We’re the only ones watching Alexandria. If the fight comes to us, we have to be prepared. We have to wait, and hope for the best.” 

Rosita chased the pills with the rest of the water. “We can do more than just hope. We don’t have to fight, we can still be their eyes and ears. If they do get out, we can get back here before them. Maybe we’ll even get the chance to take out Negan.”

“Do you really think that would stop them?” Michonne asked wearily, but she stood anyways, pulling the covers off Rosita’s legs. She looked un-amused when she found her already dressed in jeans and combat boots to her threadbare camisole with a wet, brownish stain seeping through it. “Not so fast. We’re changing your bandage first.”

 

The next thing to enter Jesus’ awareness was the dim, dank air surrounding him, a bitter taste clinging to his parched tongue. His head felt too heavy to lift from the scratchy, dirty rug he felt beneath him. He had no idea where he was, but he heard hushed voices, muted spatters of rapid gunfire, and a flurry of footsteps rumbling the concrete ceiling above him.

“He’s awake,” a woman said.

“Cuff him again,” said another.

“Please don’t,” he rasped. His ribs felt tender and the borders of his perception were still a little snowy. 

“You with us, kid?” he recognized Simon’s voice.

He took a moment to steel himself and breathe, waiting for the flickering grey to recede from the corners of his vision, as just a moment ago he was certainly being mowed down by a rain of friendly fire. With that realisation came a sudden flood of sorrow, and he found himself swallowing back bitter tears as nausea swelled in his gut. 

“Where am I?” 

Simon snorted. “Downstairs. Hey, easy does it.” 

He carefully pushed himself off the floor, and felt hands helping him sit up. It took a moment to realise a bottle of water was extended his way. He took it and drank hungrily until he choked and began coughing, still confused and checking himself over. “Was I shot?”

Simon flashed a too-big smile and shook his head, “Nope! Just dropped like a rag doll. Don’t sweat it, happens to the best of us.” His eyes connected sardonically with the others, shaking his head again.

Nearby, a group of women in dated evening dress sat in a sort-of circle where a whole lot of junk had been pushed to the side. An electric lantern bounced a dim, cold light off the ceiling. Harsh shadows moved wildly across it when a man beside it stood and approached Simon and Jesus. It was Harlan, crouching down beside him and looking to Simon for permission. “Can I look at him?” 

“Sure thing, doc, but first how’s this looking to you?” Simon peeled the gauze away from his arm where he’d been holding it and a thick ooze of blood caused Harlan to press his hand back against it. Jesus had to look away, feeling nauseated all over again.

“Yeah, no, that’s going to need stitches, and those are in my clinic. Let me wrap it up in the meantime. Keep the pressure on it.” Harlan got up again to dig around, finding some old sheets folded up in a chest and tearing some strips off one of them. 

Jesus felt himself swaying as his mouth flooded with a gush of saliva, his vision greying as he looked around for a place to vomit. A small plastic trash can was placed into his lap just in time for the hot rush of water and bile that he was suddenly gagging up. 

“Nice catch,” Harlan sighed, and knelt again to wrap Simon’s wound. “He’s probably got low blood sugar. Needs more than just water. Is there anything else down here?”

Simon flexed his grip and winced, testing the snugness of the bandage. “Nope. Can grab something upstairs while I grab those stitches, if I’ve got the all-clear.”

Harlan winced, pulling out a pad and carefully writing out as legible a list as he could. “You’re far from all clear, and you’ll want to eat something too. You’ve lost a lot of blood. Sit down if you’re feeling faint.”

Simon shook his head, his lips stretched from ear to ear. “Wow, doc. I’m touched. It’s almost like you really care.” He slapped a heavy palm down on Carson’s shoulder with an aggressive squeeze before he rose and handed his gun to the man with the limp. “Congratulations, Oats, you’ve been promoted! Either of our guests makes a dash for the stairs, you put a bullet in them,” he said with a wily grin, saluted the dumbstruck man, and left.

 

Outside the municipal compound, Daryl’s patience was shot. They had cleared every room and come away empty-handed. Empty rooms, a deserted, blood-stained cell with a half-eaten sandwich, a barren nursery, unfinished meals still warm on their plates, but no Saviors, and no weapons. He could tell Rick was close to losing his composure too, and couldn’t care less. When Tara’s and Aaron’s responses came in on the two-way, it was clear that Negan had already pulled his men, and they would be dealing with the issue at Sanctuary. 

“Carol, come in.” Rick’s voice had a waver to it, and droplets of sweat clung to curls that dangled over pale eyes. 

Every second of silence increased the deafening numbness that seeped through Daryl’s body. When Rick repeated his call and, after another minute, lowered the radio to his side, Daryl shook his head, beyond hope, beyond anger. 

Rick sniffed, met his eyes briefly, and strode back to his jeep, climbing in and slamming the door behind him. He waited a minute, then turned to see Daryl frozen where he’d stood, his bike still propped haphazardly against a low cinder block wall. 

“Daryl, you comin’?”

The hunter shuffled his feet, staring at the dirt, then looked from his bike to Rick, seeing the uncertainty in wide, blue eyes. 

“You really goin’? You really think one little herd will hold ‘em?” Fury and despair moved him forward, burned in his throat. “We got nothin’ to offer them trash people, Rick. We’re spread too thin. It’s over. Go back to Alexandria. Get back to your kids an’ your woman. I’m gettin’ him out myself.”

Rick didn’t flinch when a meaty palm smacked against his door, and Daryl watched as wetness filled his reddened eyes. Rick shook his head. 

“They can turn this around, Daryl. Don’t do this. Not yet. We need you.”

Sickening images filed through Daryl’s mind; The smell of his cell, the taste of dog food and vomit. Sasha’s cadaver violently lurching forth from a steel casket. Paul, a stained tracksuit draped loosely over his compact frame, a wire-wrapped bat suspended in the scope of his crossbow. Paul cycling off into the abyss, the easy faith he held that he’d return just as promised. His chest heaved and his voice came out tight and unsteady.

“Them cowards ain’t gonna do shit for us.” 

The crackle of Rick’s walkie-talkie drew their attention, Carol’s voice came dim and frantic, granting them both a bump of relief as she delivered the final blow. 

_Kingdom down. I’m with Ezekiel and Jerry. We’re going back. The weapons, they were here, they’re heading for the Sanctuary._

Rick’s expression seemed unaffected as he let the news sink in momentarily before depressing the signal and lifting the set to his mouth. 

“Copy that.” 

Daryl shook his head, grasping Rick’s arm as he turned the key in the ignition, hated the hurt in his brother’s eyes as the rift between them grew impassable. 

“No. Rick. Just give him what he wants, we can fight another time. You think another dozen of us can make a difference now?”

Rick furrowed. “I think it’s worth a shot, Daryl. What’s gotten into you? You really want to go back to that? I saw what he did to you. I can’t let you.” Rick choked, visibly shaken, and Daryl would have been touched if he wasn’t an overwhelming mix of insulted and scared. 

He shook his head. “We can end this, cut our losses. Can’t change shit if we’re all dead.” Daryl chewed his lip a moment, inhaling forcefully before pushing himself off the frame of Rick’s jeep and mounting his bike. 

“Daryl.”

“Na-uh. Go home, Rick.”

Anything Rick might have said was drowned out by the roar of his motor as he sped away, stirring the dead leaves in his wake.

 

Inside the Sanctuary’s dark, stuffy basement, the stowaways were growing restless and agitated.

“What’s taking so long, woman?”

The interruption drew glares from almost everyone in the room, before Jesus weakly answered for her, still huddled around a pail of spit and bile while Harlan rubbed his back. 

“It’s lumpy.”

“The powder’s old. Here,” she added, dumping some of the stubborn lemonade into a cup, clumps and all, and passing it to Jesus, before she continued smashing and stirring with the wooden spoon.

He took it gratefully and didn’t mind the sugary chunks floating at the surface. Simon had only returned for a quick stitching-up from Harlan and to swap a tin of powdered drink mix for his gun before re-joining the fight. To the sound of battle there was the addition of distant but heavier gunfire, possibly from outside. Jesus dimly hoped it was his people coming to finish the fight, but the shouts he heard didn’t have the urgency he would expect from the losing side. Otis cast him a leery glare as he claimed his cup of juice, no longer favouring the leg he had been the previous day. He leaned toward Harlan, voice low.

“Does this guy come to see you often, or just when he’s about to be deployed?”

Harlan elbowed him sharply to shut him up, trying to keep an indifferent expression when he murmured back, “he’s not the only one. Still, best not to try anything.” 

Jesus hummed, feeling his heart lurch when his thoughts drifted back to the events that had driven them all to the sanctuary’s basement. “What happened while I was out?”

Harlan shrugged. “Not much. Negan sent his wives down here, I helped Simon get you down the stairs,” he massaged his shoulder, giving it a quick stretch. “You’re a lot heavier than you look, you know. I think Rick pulled his men once the herd closed in. Don’t know if any of them were hit, but it didn’t sound like it.”

The news gave Jesus some relief. He began to feel much better after his drink, and the urge to doze swiftly crept up on him. Only an hour had passed when the din above died down, but it had felt much longer while he nodded off periodically against the comforting warmth of Harlan’s shoulder. They had been good friends at Hilltop, and he couldn’t help the feeling of gratitude knowing they were both still alive, even in hostile captivity. 

After a few moments a lone gunshot punctuated the silence that had settled above and around them, and shortly afterwards the heavy steel door at the top of the concrete stairs opened and Simon and Dwight came down along with the stench of walkers. They stood over him, Dwight with his crossbow raised, and Simon motioned for Jesus to stand and follow. 

The light of the main floor burned his eyes a moment, and the reek of walker guts was stifling. Dozens of saviors were already at work cleaning up the war-zone. With faces masked against the stench, some dragged bodies through broken glass to pile them up outside. The familiar form of Eugene caught his attention as he passed, looking like a ghost buster or something with a canister of bleaching solution strapped to his back, spraying back the outer edges of the carnage.

Three flights up, they entered a small conference room and he was sat at the end of a long table, and without a word left to sit and wait in silence, unshackled. Instinct told him to try the doors, search for a weapon, or simply duck behind the door to break the neck of the next person who entered, but the sound of heavy footsteps and men’s voices approaching the door kept him frozen in place, staring at the marbled laminate tabletop in front of him. When the heavy door opened, he flinched, and then heard Negan’s unmistakeable voice. 

“No. You two wait here.”

The door closed again, leaving them in relative silence. The presence behind him was palpable, he heard the shuffle of leather sleeves, the heavy boots, the steady breathing as Negan approached and passed him. He walked to the opposite end of the long cafeteria table that served as their conference area, pulled out a small industrial chair with a loud scrape and slumped into it comfortably. He propped Lucille in a chair next to him before folding his hands, one gloved, before him, and regarding him with a mischievous twinkle.

“Well, well. Seems like that shit-storm’s finally wrapped up for now.” Negan leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table, lowering his voice to an achingly sympathetic murmur. “Didn’t seem to me like they cared too much that I was about to bash your skull in, kid.” He shook his head, making him self taller again and leaning back in his chair. “That’s gotta sting.”

Jesus felt a familiar lump burning in his throat, felt his frame shaking slightly as he found his voice, his mouth dry. “I’m the one who messed it up. They owe me nothing.” He stared at his hands, his bitten nails, picking at his chapped fingertips and willing away the wet heat that blurred his eyes. 

Negan nodded, silent for a moment, rolling his tongue over his teeth before drawing in a controlled breath. “That’s not how I see it. Hell, I’m glad to have you here. This gives us an opportunity to get to know eachother a little bit better, don’t you think?” 

Wide sea-green eyes rose to meet Negan’s, the rest of him remaining still and silent. 

“Hell, it’s a small miracle no-one died here today, not that we didn’t lose half our goddamn dead, may they rest in peace.”

Jesus narrowed his eyes in honest confusion. 

Negan raised his eyebrows, dark eyes pinned on his. “You didn’t think about them, did you? Those were my people, too, once upon a time.”

The pain lurking behind his eyes would have made Paul feel some twinge of guilt if the whole situation wasn’t so unthinkable. He swiped a stubborn tear off his neck with his shoulder, hating how his hoarse voice shook when he forced a response. “Why keep them?”

Negan tilted his head in confusion. “Why? Why would I leave them behind? Your friends who showed up to slaughter us today, you were willing to die for them, right?” 

Jesus swallowed harshly, shrugged, because now he wasn’t so sure of it.

Negan sucked air through his teeth. “Good. You’re smarter than that. Me, though? I like my men. I’d die for my men, and they would die for me. That is who we are. If I could continue to protect them in death, I’d think it an honour. We work our asses off, around the clock, to keep them walking, to keep ourselves safe, to keep our communities safe, and to keep them from hurting others, unless we need them to. So do you understand, now, the colossal shit that Rick and his people have taken in the well-oiled machine I have been busting royal ass to build?”

Paul nodded, quickly, seeing the red flush creeping down from Negan’s hairline, afraid the man would snap and yell at him at any moment. “I do, now, and I’m sorry, for your loss, that wasn’t what--” he flinched, eyes widened, when Negan slammed Lucille against the table in a controlled explosion.

“That wouldn’t have fucking happened if you fucking pricks had put in the effort to rub enough of your puny dicks together to come up with the idea to fucking speak with me before fucking me over with that breath-taking brain fart you collectively ripped this morning!” He sat again when he finished yelling, slicking back his hair with a wild grin. 

“So, please, tell me the collective intelligence that remains in this world hasn’t hopelessly turned to shit. Tell me there’s some feasible fucking reason that multiple individuals would follow that spineless, dickless cowboy piece of shit on his death-wish quest for petty vengeance.” 

Jesus swallowed, not sure where to start, or if Negan was finished cussing him out, but the man raised his eyebrows, and he fumbled with the sweaty cuff of his sweatshirt, trying to make himself disappear. 

“Well, they follow him because he’s sworn to _end_ all the violence, and he thinks he can do that by taking you out?” 

Negan leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his stubbled chin and biting back any remarks he might have until after the young man finished. 

“I mean, you know your men better than I do, but from his point of view, from ours, they—and technically, you, since they all did so under your name, tried to rob them? Some of your men beat the shit out of Daryl, threatened to rape Michonne, and Carl, promised to kill them if they didn’t hand everything over, and basically go around trying to act like a bunch of gangsters, stealing and killing decent people who’ve just been trying to survive since the start of all this.”

Negan cut in, “and you think my people haven’t? You think we haven’t suffered and lost to get to where we are today?” 

Jesus scoffed. “Well, obviously! At this point, to the people left, the dead are a cakewalk compared to the living! But you didn’t really do much to sell anyone on your protection, not when you’ve been the biggest threat to us yet.”

Negan looked slightly murderous as the muscles in his jaw twitched, and Jesus did his best to ease off a little to seek out some common ground.

“You said so yourself: people are a resource. Show them that you can be better than him. Maybe you could try to make this work without murdering anyone else.”

“Are you trying to give me leadership advice?”

“You asked why they follow Rick. They follow him because they love him, these aren’t just fighters, these are families we’re talking about. Just as you claim to love your people. If you strike them down, more will take their place, seeking vengeance.” 

Negan seemed amused. “Yeah, right. And give them more time to plot another attack, to try and kill me at every turn? What does Rick think will happen? Does he really think someone without my capabilities would do better in my place?”

“So don’t kill Rick. Capture him. He’s the one making the calls, but he’s not the only one they trust. If those close to him stand down, you’ll have the power to end this.”

“Damn, kid. They shot at you, and you’re still going to bat for them? Either you’ve got some kind of death wish, or you really think there’s something about them worth fighting for. Seems a little crazy to me, but I can respect that.” 

Jesus shrugged minutely. “They’re good shots, and no one hit me.” 

“Didn’t hit me either,” Negan pointed out, brows aloft.

He shrunk further in his chair, because it was a valid point, reluctant to open up, but Negan watched him with sharp eyes and steepled fingers. “They’re the only family I’ve got. I just don’t want anyone else to get hurt. They probably expected you to kill me anyways.” 

Negan nodded, stroking Lucille’s smooth handle in his lap. “Yeah, about that. Seems like Lucille’s had a change of heart, for now.”

Jesus glanced up again with big eyes, not sure if he could believe what he heard.

Negan saw the confusion in his eyes and shook his head, leaning forward and lowering his voice. "Do you really think I like doing what I do? I mean, you seem like a pretty nice guy, all the thieving, murdering and trespassing aside. Would have been an awful waste, don’t you think?"

He fought to keep his eyes on Negan’s, desperate to maintain a basic level of mistrust. “Seemed fine with doing it to Sasha.” Jesus felt his gut lurch saying it.

Negan blinked, taken aback by the comment. “I was proud to have her. What happened was a tragic accident.”

Jesus glared, feeling ill at the recollection of her lurching corpse, nostrils flared, despising the sadness and honesty in Negan’s eyes. “You didn’t even know her. You didn’t have to put her down.”

The compassion on Negan’s face only worsened. “Damn, boy. I am fucking sorry that happened. I truly am. She was meant to be a hostage, not a casualty.”

Jesus wasn't sure what to say to that, but he’d recovered some of his anger, and if Negan was going to kill him he preferred to get it over with sooner than later. "Well, you saw how it went over with me. Maybe taking friends hostage and executing them isn’t the most sustainable way to do business."

Negan’s face darkened, determined not to let his frustration take over, not to lose the progress he felt he’d been making with the tantalizing new ally. “Your ‘friends’ are a special exception, given how hesitant they are to see reason after slaughtering dozens of my men. And as awesome as it is to see my beloved Lucille caked in gore, I have better things to do with my time, believe it or not.” 

“Like what, finding new survivors to terrorize while your soldiers sit around playing poker with full bellies?”

Negan laughed flatly, leaning in. “Well wouldn't that be the bee's balls. Sure as shit like your idea better." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Jesus, you really don’t know shit, and you act like you’ve got nothing to lose, but don’t think I don’t see right through that bullshit. You've been pissing yourself non-stop today, and don’t think I didn’t notice that Daryl of mine lunging in to save you, either.” 

Paul stiffened beneath the piercing stare of dark eyes, he felt heat crawling up his neck, and his heart thumping in his chest, at a loss for words after the sudden change of topic. 

Negan flashed a coy grin as he watched the play of emotion on the young man’s face. “That's right, now that I think about it, that crusty old snake of yours told me it was you who snuck him out of here, wasn't it? Yeah, he had a lot to say about you.”

Jesus narrowed his eyes. “Before you killed him.”

Negan chuckled, running a tongue over his teeth. “Yeah, shit, he really had it out for you. Would have sold the shirts off your backs for a chance to spit-shine my boots. As stupid as it was to try to tip-toe around the rules, I can’t really blame any of you for ignoring that bigoted old scab. You should probably thank me for dealing with him.”

Jesus wasn’t sure which angered him more, the total disregard for human life or the fact that deep down he was glad that Gregory was dead. “You’re crazy if you think I’m going to thank you for murdering my people.”

Negan seemed vaguely amused by the dramatic statement, rolling a tongue over teeth behind tight lips. “Easy, boy. Sit down. Do you really think me mad?”

He couldn’t help but huff a despondent laugh, plopping back into his chair. “Is there anyone left who isn’t?” He hung his head, kneading one hand with the other before casting a hopeful glance toward his enemy, “I’m hoping you’ll prove me wrong.”

Negan straightened in his seat, examining him cautiously when a stranger’s voice interrupted from the walkie-talkie beside him. 

_All units present and awaiting instruction, sir. Kingdom threat has been neutralized, hostiles are regrouping at Alexandria. Over._

Negan picked it up and thumbed the dial thoughtfully before he replied.

“Copy that. Great work, boys, but god damn that’s a waste. Where’s the King? Over.”

_No sign of him, or the cat. Over._

Negan pursed his lips in sincere frustration, casting Jesus a warning glare when he shifted in his seat. “Deploy units four through eight to stand by at Alexandria. Keep them surrounded, and wait for my signal. Do not fucking engage unless provoked. Over.” He met Jesus’ eyes while delivering the last line before setting it down again. 

_Roger that. Over and out._

Paul shook his head slowly, eerily numb to the gravity of the loss, sectioned away to process some other time as the shifting tides of war gained clarity in his mind. “No. Negan.”

He squinted. “What the fuck do you mean, ‘no’?” 

“I mean that without the Kingdom, you have the numbers. They’re counting on strategy. They’re counting on Jadis. On drawing you out, and spreading your forces thin. They’re good at this.”

Negan scowled at him with pure mistrust. “So am I. What should I do, let them surround us again?” 

“Yes. If they don’t come to surrender, capture them. They’re down to two dozen good fighters. If you want them working for you, this is your best chance. Rick gave explicit instructions not to harm your workers, so prove that you won’t harm theirs, unless you think your soldiers would rather water tomatoes all summer.”

Negan stared him down inscrutably, thin tongue darting out to swipe over his lower lip in thought. “Let me get this straight; hours ago, I was about to scatter your precious little skull all over my porch, and now you’re telling me how to win a fucking war?” 

Jesus rubbed his beard thoughtfully and shrugged, folding his hands on the table. “I’m showing you the quickest path to peace, with the fewest losses, for both sides. If you can take it there, then maybe you can work out a better plan that doesn’t leave your indentured servants plotting another revolt.” He cocked a challenging eyebrow, his expression otherwise mirthless. 

Negan’s jaw clenched, eyes fixed on his prisoner, then rose abruptly, the steel legs of his chair scraping over concrete. He stuffed the walkie-talkie under his belt against narrow hips, slung Lucille over his shoulder and strode to the door, finding Dwight waiting dutifully in the hallway. 

“Put him to bed. Rally in twenty.” 

Dwight nodded and entered the room to pull Jesus out of his chair, cuffing his arms behind his back. Before he could process what was happening, he was already being shoved down the hallway, back toward the stairs. 

“Wait!” Jesus called down the hallway. 

Dwight yanked him roughly by the arm but he broke free when Negan stopped momentarily and swivelled to address him, his brows raised impatiently. 

Tongue-tied, he blanked for a moment, before he took a breath and blurted out, “thank you. For the lemonade.” It earned him a surprised smirk before Dwight grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt and hauled him away. 

 

Beneath the sweltering afternoon sun, Rosita and Michonne had reached a stalemate with Aaron’s team over who would scout the situation at the Sanctuary, just as the rumble of Daryl’s bike announced his arrival before he pounded loudly on the gates. When he was granted entry, Michonne’s eyes widened at the sight of him alone, and she approached him with a wary look. 

“Where’s Rick?” 

“Jadis,” he growled, “not that it’ll do us any damn good.”

Michonne pursed her lips and shook her head. “Have you heard from Tara? Carol?”

The agitated set of Daryl’s face faltered, and he hung his head. “Nothin’ from Tara. Carol and Zeke are headin’ back for the Kingdom. Rest of ‘em died.” He shut his mouth after an errant breath sounded too much like a sob, meeting her eyes when she squeezed his shoulder.

“M’ sorry. Tried to stop him.” 

Michonne tilted her head, “you weren’t supposed to. Did you find their cache?” 

Daryl shook his head. “Gregory must’ve known somehow. Cleared everythin’ out before we got there, same as y’all,” he jerked his chin towards Aaron as he approached. “Saw some tracks, probably loaded it all up an’ withdrew to the Sanctuary.”

Rosita and the others gathered around in silence, Aaron casting Michonne a leery glance as the grim reality settled over her face. When no further questions came, she pulled Daryl into a tight hug, rubbing his broad back until the quiet hum of an approaching vehicle drew their attention. Eric stopped Rosita at the foot of the ladder, swiftly scaling the lookout and peering over the fence until the sound drew nearer and recognition flashed across his face.

“It’s Tara! Open it up!” 

Aaron jumped in to help Daryl roll the gate back, letting the military-style vehicle enter and pushing it shut again as Daryl gawked. Tara cut the engine and stumbled out, numbly taking stock of the people who moved in around her, bewildered eyes landing on Rosita.

“Why aren’t you lying down?”

Rosita gaped, gesturing to Tara’s blood-spattered, bedraggled self. “Fuck that, what the hell happened to you?! Where is everyone?”

Tara blanked, shrugging numbly. “Gone. They’re gone, all dead, Saviors too,” she shook her head, glancing through the crowd, unseeing, smearing blood-caked fingers on her pants. “Diane took half of them out before she was shot, and Morgan, I finished the guy who killed him, for what it’s worth.” Her voice was uncharacteristically soft. She gestured to the truck. “He died to get me out of there, to get all this out of there.”

Daryl yanked the tarp off the back of the truck, revealing a haphazard stockpile of various firearms, boxes of ammunition, explosives, and a very large set of speakers.

Michonne stared at the unexpected boon, wide-eyed, shaking her head slowly as she took in a silent inventory. “This buys us a chance.” 

“It does,” Tara agreed. “I’ll go. Hit them while they’re regrouping. Blast down their walls, draw in the stragglers. Buy some time while you get the weapons to Rick, to Jadis.”

“Nah. I’m goin’. Paul’s still in there.” 

Tara stared him down, jerking her chin at Daryl, “that’s exactly why you’re not going. _Paul_ made his choice, we don’t need you fucking this up when he’s probably already dead.” 

“Tara—” Aaron began, before she cut him off meeting Michonne’s eyes briefly and receiving no input, Eric slipping a hand into his.

“It’s true! And if he is, you don’t need to see it,” she concluded, addressing Daryl again, her voice raw with downtrodden grief. 

Daryl chewed his lip, jaw working furiously as he stepped back, waving Michonne’s placating hand off his arm and shaking his head, his voice tight and unsteady. “That don’t matter. I can’t be the one to leave him there.”

Her brown eyes softened, feeling a flicker of sympathy. “Look, I know how I’d feel if it was Denise in there. If he’s still alive, you can’t risk your life. Let me do it.” 

Daryl paused, agape, suddenly conscious of the sympathetic looks surrounding him and suddenly feeling exposed. “S’ not like that.”

Tara sighed. “Sure. My point is, you’re no good to him dead. I’ve got nothing to lose, and everything to gain.” 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Rosita smacked her shoulder with alarming ferocity. “No one wants your stupid ass dead either!”

Daryl grunted, “Stop wastin’ time. Even if Rick brings Jadis ‘round, we don’t stand a chance. I can end this.” Daryl extended his hand, expecting her to hand over the keys.

Tara gave it a long, dirty look, feeling an angry lump in her throat. “Alright. Fine. If that’s how you want it to end. What do you want me to do, watch them gun you down at the gate?” She slapped them into his thick palm, sniffing loudly.

Daryl grimaced, and shook his head, no tremble visible behind tight lips, just weary grief etched into every line of his face. “I’ll make it closer than that, and you won’t be watchin’. Stay here. Keep them safe.” He began unloading the crates of guns while he spoke, the others joining in, leaving him with the crates of dynamite. Once he had the truck turned around, he motioned Michonne closer, giving her the key to his bike. 

“Get him to bring Jadis here. No point hittin’ the Sanctuary when they have the numbers. If they come for you, hold them back, evacuate to Hilltop.”

She closed her hand in his, giving him a reassuring squeeze before taking the key. “Daryl.” 

He inhaled deeply, the hardness fading from his face when he looked to her.

Michonne cupped his cheek, offering a kind smile that made him feel a little bit better. “Don’t die.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dearest friend, I'm sorry for the long wait. It's been hard to adjust to my new schedule. Thank you for the comments that spurred me on.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing this for a good friend, but if anyone else out there enjoys it, that would be a lovely bonus. Feel free to comment with thoughts and ideas!


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